There’s a wave in the front of my hair that looks just like his. Countless mornings wasted, drowning the kink in water and alcohol, blasting my scalp with heat, beating my head with a brush, cursing the curves into straight, lifeless submission.

Flesh of my flesh, blood, bones

Despite defining differences, years were spent attempting to scratch and starve him out of my veins; toying with the notion of a permanent solution for drawing a firm and final boundary; redefining attempted murder into rebirth. Who wouldn’t say certain acts of man have not stollen our souls. We find ourselves crawling on our knees to the son.

Eternal life with me

When the scent of your own skin activates your gag reflex it’s hard to love the sin you’re in. Living in sin they say at church, about unwed couples residing together; when does eviction come for the unconvicted? After the shower, after every seven years of biological renewal, after the second baptism, the got-it-right this time marriage which came after the divorce. Cross your heart and hope to be reborn every mourning. Magdalene cried when they denied her audience with the Holy Host of ghosts; body of Christ but not for you.

My will be done

Surrender because what else can we do? Where’s your hungry, thirsty, humble, poor, sick hustle? We shall overcome; with kale and highlights? Brené do not feed me your instructive positivity. Woman cannot live on simple carbs, alone. Grits because I choose to refuse to wallow in tragic consciousness. Exfoliate! Biscuit Bitch! Therapy, energy healing, drum circling, praying, radical acceptance, forgiveness but that’s not what I’m talking about. Sometimes it feels like living in a crime scene. Reflections are ugly magnified instead of just fine. You long to be but It’s there, brushing your hair, detected when you least expect it.

Till kingdom come.

xo

The good news is the city is full of art and it’s great to be away. I couldn’t have written this piece when I still felt that way, to the point of debilitating panic; it’s more reflective of what it has felt like most of my life. I still don’t love my face, hair, skin, nose, mouth, crooked toe…but am noticing the older and more myself I become the less those traits and experiences own me and the more I define myself having lived through them. Maybe as we age our bodies become like a comfortable and familiar chair we can finally rest in.

I didn’t realise you took the photo, so copyright is with you. Thanks for being willing to share but … You should put a copyright notice underneath your own photos so one realises – and perhaps I should read better! 🙂 I’d offer to buy a copy but …

Haha. Aww, thanks for being thoughtful. I’m all about sharing. All the work on my site is under copyright but feel free to copy save and share. I didn’t create this particular artwork, just snapped the picture. Now, when my book comes out I’ll welcome buyers. ❤️

You have copyright to the photograph of the artwork. Since it has been papered over yours may be the only one, besides that of the artist, in existence! It’s therefore a collector’s item. Street artists expect photos to be taken of their work so can’t hold copyright to their work. I checked your site, there’s nothing there stating anything about copyright. It’s important.

The copyrights are for my writing. As for this artwork all the more reason to share it if I got the only proof of its existence! Ha. The informal info about my copyright is on my home page Born in Providence. I’m not fancy but didn’t want anyone to steal my life. Lived thru hell for this material. 😉

Ooooh aaaaah this is a fantastic piece! ❤ Short, but conveys universes. Super stuff Ms E, although you paid a high price to be able to write this. Lots of love to you and thank you for aharing that super-interesting street art too.

Thanks Sophie. Blurry, misspelled writing is one of my superpowers too. Maybe I’ll give the dark lord a shout out in my book, like ‘Thanks pure evil for all the hell you give. Sincerely, All the Artists and Writers’ 😉 Lots of love right back Sophie.